Monday, July 26, 2010

Der 12. November ist der 316. Tag des Gregorianischen Kalenders (der 317. in Schaltjahren), somit bleiben 49 Tage bis zum Jahresende.

She had a face like a broken toy. Worked over. Abused. Intentionally. “Cosmetically”. It gets hard to believe she actually paid for that shit to be done to her. Or had some man pay. Promised Elysian Fields of youth and beauty and given this monstrosity. Live with this, dearie, cause there ain’t no going back now.

[There’s something happening here, but you don’t know what it is. Do you, Mr. Jones?]

In dim lighting, everything is a lie. A pen, to a wall, in an instant. I was younger then. A brief instant. A red sharpie and a subway wall. I had no poems. Just a bellyful of wine, an idiot’s grin, a woman’s inexplicable love. I was truly in the moment. I drew. I scrawled. I laughed and spewed nonsense. It was glory. It was nothing. It was a moment lost in the millions. Scrubbed from the walls by baffled city workers later come Monday, but it was there. It lived. And perhaps, for a moment, I was free.

Welcome to Buxom Blueberry, population: 17.3

[Time to face the strange. ch-ch-ch-changes.]

Like bobcats. Like chained bobcats wrestling with a bowl of rabid tuna fish. Grits. Mayonnaise. And a worn copy of Candide oder der Optimismus.

- Just say you were smoking.

- I don’t smoke.

- Fine, just say you went to the woods to take a leak because you don't trust technology. Just make damn sure you don’t mention you actually went inside.

- …

- Willards, I was just here looking for you. Where were you?

- I was smoking.

- Oh. Very good. Carry on then, boys.

[debts that no honest man can pay]


When John Dillinger died, his last thought was of the Pope’s phone number. Not that he realized it. Or it’s importance. // Years later, a child was born with a curiously shaped birthmark: a Thompson machine gun. He was blessed twice with Holy Water before being given over the Church. Next Generation Six-Gun Holy Roller. // These colors run any way they choose.


- It begins with a warm glow. A warm glow and a sickly pallor. From the outside you will look like you are in the worst of fevered dreams. Ranting, raving. They won’t trust you. They probably won’t believe you. If this is all to give you a chance to convince someone of something, this isn’t your poison.

- That’s not what this is.

- Ok. Like I said: you are going to look terrible: sweats, fevers, maybe some shakes. You prone to jitters? If you are, you’ll likely have them. Just the way of it. You’ll have to deal. But terrible as you look, you will feel amazing. Lucid. And I mean lucid. You have never been so awake, so aware. I’m sure you’ve done a lot of drugs, mind-expanding shit. Yeah, well, you have no idea what’s in store for you. You have no idea what your mind really is capable of. It truly is amazing. You will be clear of mind and body and purpose in the way that only the most trained and advanced monks and yogis are. You will understand.

- That’s what I’m looking for. How much?

- You do realize, don’t you, that you only have 36 hours? This isn’t something for nothing kid. This is the old magick, these are the laws of nature. There’s no bargaining, no second chances, no backsies. 36 hours. And then you die.

- Yeah. I know. I get it. I have to finish the book. How much?

- $2,750.


Après moi le déluge

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